


And Burnt the Topless Towers of Ilium

by parsnips (trifles)



Series: Tumblr Treasures [6]
Category: Glee, Shakespeare in Love (1998)
Genre: Acting, Actors, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, Crossdressing, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Historical, Historical Dress, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Master-Apprentice Relationship, Pre-Slash, References to Shakespeare, Shakespearean Language, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 00:51:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8182616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trifles/pseuds/parsnips
Summary: Master Curteys has grown too tall to play a Juliet. Blane Warbulton must be trained before he can take the stage. They've never spoken a word to one another -- until now.





	

“Now try to walk down-stage without tripping over the skirts,” Master Curteys said, his famous voice fairly dripping with boredom.

Blane adjusted the bumroll at his hips before stepping forward, the soft brush of linen and wool swinging oddly at his feet— only to have Master Curteys roll his eyes and direct him back behind the curtain again. “You’re not a lady’s maid come back from a tumble,” he said. He crossed his arms and leaned back against a column, narrowing his eyes. “You’re Juliet, daughter of the Capulets, heroine of this play and my buggering understudy, and I’ll have you acting like a delicate rose in its first blushing bloom before I let you anywhere near my stage. Is that clear?”

Blane swallowed. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

Master Curteys looked at him a moment longer, and then relaxed marginally. “Your voice isn’t as good as mine, but you might soften it. We’ll work on making sure you can reach the stalls and still keep it a girl’s. The way you looked away just then was very good; you’ll want to keep that for your scenes with Lady Capulet. Your features will suit — I see why Master Henslowe suggested you.”

Curteys paused, but did not say the main reason why Blane had been brought forward as an understudy. It hung, for Blane at least, uncomfortably in the air between them.

There were two Romeos currently at work, but only one was of a height to overpower Master Curteys — the other was much diminished by him, and the crowds had proved themselves too merry over the contrast to provide a suitable audience for the play. The subject of Master Curteys's recent growth was a topic of great, though quiet, discussion amongst the players, but it had finally been Master Henslowe, the owner of The Rose, who had looked about, pulled Blane up from amongst the stage hands, and called him the newest woman on the stage.

Blane was to play Juliet on the nights when the shorter Romeo was in residence. He was taking the role that Master Curteys had made famous, and it was all because there was finally a hint of the masculine about Master Curteys that could not be charmed away by any magic of the stage. They both knew it. There was resentment to be had in plenty; revenge, too, if Curteys wished it. All that was necessary was for Blane to be trained poorly — he had no stagecraft, not really. His first night could be his last, if Curteys deemed it so.

Master Curteys pushed away from his spot against the column, an odd look upon his face as he came closer. Almost as if Blane’s thoughts had twinned in Curteys’s mind, and the other actor had found them uncomfortable to contemplate. He stood before Blane and with a finger tilted up Blane’s chin, so that he might look him in the eye. It was the closest the two had ever stood — Blane had not even spoken to the man before today.

Master Curteys’s eyes, flicking as they did across Blane’s face with an intensity that belied his earlier boredom, were a pale blue, or perhaps a green. They seemed to shift in color as Blane watched, which was a wonder.

This was the man who’d played the shade of Helen, fairer than the evening air and clad in the beauty of a thousand stars, and for the moment Blane forgot that he was a player too, now, and felt his breath catch in his throat.

Master Curteys let his hand drop, though he did not step away. Quietly, he said, “Your name again?”

“Blane Warbulton.”

Master Curteys tilted his head, as he had when he played Zenocrate facing Tamburlaine, and Blane had decided that he must pursue the stage. “That explains the accent,” Curteys said, and Blane must’ve started, for Curteys smiled a little. “I listen, Master Warbulton. I watch. Blane is a Scots saint, is he not? No one else will notice it, but the audience will hear something off about your speeches, a touch of something that will break the illusion for them. We will add it to the list of things to work on together, you and I.”

A strange look passed over Master Curteys face, then, something almost like uncertainty. It occurred to Blane that, but for the great difference in their current occupations, they could not be more than a twelve-month apart in age. With some hesitance, Master Curteys reached out and adjusted Blane’s bumroll, so that it rested slightly lower and further back against his hips. He smoothed the skirts over it. “The costumer does this, sometimes,” Curteys said, his brow drawn in. “Not all men are meant to wear the roll so high. I always feel like I’ve got a pair of fleas biting me for hours if I don’t fix it after he’s done.”

“Thank you, Master Curteys,” Blane breathed, and Curteys blinked and stepped back rapidly. His face flushed pink, better than any pot could paint it.

“You may call me Curt, as the others do,” he said, his voice a little high. He turned and stalked back to his column, crossed his arms, and with some determination said, “Now start again, and this time, keep your hands in a proper clasp and walk like a lady. If I see your damned feet even once I’ll have Henslowe replace you with John Webster. Now — begin!”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [tumblr](http://triflesandparsnips.tumblr.com/post/48366702148/you-know-what-you-should-write-a-gleeshakespeare).


End file.
